Page 7 of The Shooting Season

I nodded genially to Emeline and she smiled back. “A pleasure to see you again Ms. McGovern. How is your father? I expected to see him here today. It would have been nice to converse again.”

“Aye. Unfortunately, my father’s unwell and so I’ve been sent in his stead to secure anything I believe is suitable for McGovern’s.” She informed. It was indeed unusual for a woman to be trusted with such a task alone, especially a spinster. A man stepped to Miss McGovern’s side. “I’d like to introduce my escort, Mr. Mitchell.”

Ah, that explained it. I nodded genially to Mr. Mitchell. The look that passed between Ms. McGovern and Mr. Mitchell on introduction told me that he was more than her escort, or wanted to be! I smiled and asked myself why should they not enjoy one another’s company? If I had sought a wife in my younger days Emeline would have been an agreeable companion.

“I do hope your father makes a speedy recovery, please give him my regards”, I said. Then, the genial host Lord Euan Ardmillan laughed loudly and like a pup called by its master, I turned to look at him.

Euan was dressed in a claret suit that made him look frustratingly distinguished and dashing. He met my eyes and then smiled with satisfaction. Euan then came to my side and introduced me to the international art collectors, Mr. McTaggart from Glasgow, Mr. Wren from Nottingham, Mr. Vassiliev from St Petersburg, Mr. Romano and his business partner, Mr. Rossi from Italy, and a Mr. François from Belgium. I did not offer my hand to be shaken as is correct etiquette but bowed in greeting as I was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, Mr. Cecil, Mr. Philippe, and lastly, the curious Mr. Engles. At my counting that made a total of fourteen guests including me, and among them, twelve collectors of fine art and antiquities.

It was the first time I had seen Mr. Engles' face, for he no longer wore his large fur hat with spaniel ears. The man was surprisingly comely. He had a square face with an almost feline high brow. In the firelight, his hair appeared reddish-blond and was close-cropped. He wore a waxed mustache and a beard around his chin. His circular brass rimmed spectacles hid his specific eye color from me. He was a curious creature indeed and there was something familiar about him I could not put my finger on. Mr. Engles nodded to me in recognition and then took a step closer.

“I trust you have varmed up after zhe ghastly journey today”, He said his Germanic accent sounding stern to my ear. “I vas chilled to my very bones!”

“Yes, indeed. I warmed up and gained some much-needed rest this afternoon.” I lied. I had in-fact spent most of the afternoon in emotional turmoil, pacing my room, over-thinking and praying for forgiveness for my impure thoughts of Euan. I did not want to feel and yet Euan’s teasing smiles ate at me like a worm devouring an apple core.

“I understand you have an auction house in London, ja? I am also in zuh business of antiquities.”

“Where do you do your business?”

“I am, how you say, international. I have private clients all over Europe and purchase to suit zehr vishes.”

“That’s very interesting. Is there anything particular from Lord Ardmillan’s collection you favor?”

“Ah, Mr. Hannan, we both know how zis gambit works. I couldn’t possibly say.” There was a wicked glint in the man’s eyes that made me shiver. Our conversation was cut short by Rennie announcing that we were to be seated.

The extensive mahogany table in the center of the room had been decorated with bowls of seasonal fruits and set with candelabras to give intimate lighting. The ladies were seated first and then the gentlemen. I was seated beside Mr. Mitchell and opposite Mr. Engels. It seemed I would be forced to admire his attractive visage for the whole evening! Euan stood at the head of the table and tapped his glass, the ringing sound garnering our attention.

“I am delighted you could all join me at Dunecht Hall for the sale of my late father’s personal collection. He was a man of discerning taste and he personally selected you all to attend this auction exactly one year from his passing. After dinner, we shall all view the collection together and you may ask questions of myself and our family solicitor Mr. Buchanan, who is executor and will be running the auction tomorrow.” He announced. Distinct looks of intrigue passed between guests at hearing this.

“But for now, please raise your glass in memory of my father, Lord Percival Ardmillan, may he rest in peace.”

We all stood and toasted the old Lord. I was relieved that we would, at last, get a chance to view the full collection. I had heard rumors of the treasures that Lord Ardmillan obtained for his trove, and not all of them by legal means, however, I did not know what was a fable and what was true.

The dinner began with mulligatawny soup and light conversation. After Scotch salmon with pikelets, we were delighted by the spectacle of Mr. Rennie entering the room carrying a large slab of steaming roasted beef on a silver platter. Two serving boys followed carrying trays with selections of root vegetables in silver serving bowls. Rennie laid the platter in front of his Lordship and seemingly delight to take on the task; Euan stood, made theater of sharpening his carving knife, then skewered the meat with a large fork, and carved slabs of steaming beef enough for the whole party. Watching as he sawed at the roasted flesh with such gusto, he reminded me of his father. Lord Percy had taken great pleasure in carving up his hunting trophies, mounting the heads and telling a tale of each kill.

The late Lord Ardmillan’s private collection was displayed in the attic rooms. We were led up stone steps by Mr. Rennie, Euan, and the solicitor each holding an oil lantern to light the way. The thick timber door was unlocked and Euan shouldered it open. The attic was frigidly cold and drafty, even though a roaring fire was lit at the iron hearth. Ms. McGovern harrumphed and complained sourly,

“We’ll all catch the death of cold if we spend too long in here!” The vast attic room had been prepared for us. Candelabra were lit in readiness for our arrival and a line of velvet cushioned chairs that had seen better days were laid out opposite an extended trestle table. We sat, all a little tipsy from our dinner drinks, and shivered.

“I believe Ms. McGovern vas correct. I wish also I had brought my greatcoat and fur hat. How long vill zis take, it is frightfully cold, Lord Euan.” Mr. Engles complained, his teeth chattering.

The trestle table at the head of the room was covered by a length of moth-eaten black velvet but lumps and bumps were visible beneath. The wall behind the table was also shrouded.

“On the table, I have laid out thirty items from my father’s personal collection. His ten most prized canvases are behind on the wall. You may come and peruse the items but please do not touch without asking.” Euan warned.

“If you have any questions Mr. Buchanan has the particulars for each item. Think about how much you are prepared to pay, for the fine art and the antiquities are unique and each comes with the provenance of how it was obtained written in my father’s hand.”

One-by-one we stood and by lantern light solicitor Mr. Buchanan and butler, Mr. Rennie oversaw viewing to ensure nothing was manhandled or went missing. The table was laden with gems, statuary, art, books, and gold enough to make the heart of any serious collector flutter with anticipation. I saw at once that the story was true! I saw the legendary gold and gem-encrusted Tiger’s head finial with ruby eyes that once ornamented the throne of the Tipu Sultan in Mysore, India. So, Lord Ardmillan had taken it as spoils of war during the plunder of the palace at the fall of Seringapatam. The diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that decorated the face of the Tiger were worth a king's ransom and I would be intrigued as to whom here had the funds to afford such a prize. I saw Mr. Cecil’s eyes light up at seeing the jewel-encrusted Tigers head, and Mr. Engles ducked closer to the object, a magnifier held to his right eye. He perused the item intensely.

“You have provenance, ja?”

“Yes, Mr. Buchanan will provide the buyer of each item with the full story of how it was obtained in my father’s hand.” Euan restated.

There was only one item I was interested in, and to my horror, it was not on the table. I looked up at Euan, and my brows furrowed in confusion. If I had made the journey all the way here to the West Highlands in the dead of winter and what I wanted was not for sale I would be outraged.

“Where is it? Where is the Staff?” I demanded.

Euan grinned widely. He knew exactly what I wanted and had played a jest on me. He turned, strode away and unlocked a side door and then entered another smaller room. Moments later he returned. Euan held a casket box that had been inlaid with a beautiful flowing design in rosewood and ebony. At a guess, the box had once held a very expensive bottle of wine. He came to stand beside me, unlatched the silver clasp and opened the lid, and there, displayed on a bed of red velvet laid The Staff of Asklepios, named after the Greek God of Medicine and Healing. I could not hold in an audible gasp as it was revealed, and, my goodness; it was as exquisite as I remembered.